How to End an Argument
by Eve Marie
Summary: Luke reflects back on the time he's known Taylor, and a possible mistake they made together.


Title: How to End an Argument  
Author: Eve  
Rating: R, but mostly for language; there's nothing  
too bad.  
Pairing: Luke/Taylor   
Spoilers: None  
Archive: If you like, just let me know first!  
Feedback/E-mail: Java_Eve@yahoo.com. Comments  
gleefully received.  
Summary: Luke reflects back on the time he's known  
Taylor, and a possible mistake they made together.  
Disclaimer: Not mine, I'm not making any money off  
them. They belong to Amy Sherman-Palladino, the WB,  
and others I'm sure. Please don't sue.  
I've almost always tried to stay away from Taylor  
Doose.  
  
I knew who he was growin' up. He was always tryin' to  
get my dad to change something about the store, tryin'  
to make everything cheerful. My father would play  
along with him, laugh good-naturedly, and then leave  
everything exactly the way it's always been. I guess  
those are my first real memories of Taylor. Him comin'  
into the shop, saying change this, spruce that, and my  
dad smilin' and saying "Maybe someday Taylor." And I'd  
sit on the stairs to his office, watching. And when  
Taylor left, my dad would turn to me and wink, and I'd  
smile, and he'd help the next customer.   
  
And when I got older I realized how much I didn't  
like those types of guys, the ones that nagged and  
pushed for you to do things "their" way. So I ignored  
Taylor, and his cronies, the "town beautification"  
groups and all the other committees that he ran. I  
lived in my own little world, runnin' track, helping  
out with my dad's store, listening to my music. To be  
honest, I just didn't give a damn about Taylor Doose.  
And he stopped bothering my dad so much, only coming  
by when he needed hardware supplies. Which wasn't that  
often. Taylor's big on building a better community, as  
long as he doesn't have to actually build.  
  
At my dad's funeral he came up to me to tell me what  
a great man my dad had been. A lot of people told me  
that, but for some reason I listened to him. I guess  
because by that point he was known as being honest, to  
a fault. He criticized and nit-picked everything and  
everyone. But he said my dad was a good man, and that  
meant something. When I changed the hardware store  
into a diner, he didn't bug me about it. He let me  
settle in, didn't come banging at the doors, telling  
me to spruce like I had half-expected him to. He just  
let me do my thing, for a few months at any rate.   
  
When he did come by, he did nag. But he also asked me  
how I was holdin' up, and that took a little bit of  
the edge off my irritation. 'Course, I would've thrown  
him out right then if I had known how he'd be buggin'  
me for years to come. Or maybe not. So he came, he  
made sure I was doin' alright, and then he suggested a  
fresh coat of paint. And I tried what my father had  
done, and as much as it kills me to admit it, I smiled  
and politely refused. And he kept after me, stopping  
in at least once a week, sayin' he was just getting a  
cup of coffee. Then he'd suggest new tables, or  
something else equally stupid, and eventually I  
stopped trying to be polite about the whole thing. We  
started fighting the way we've been doing for years  
now. I figured out exactly how to piss him off, and he  
did the same. Sometimes he'd storm out of the diner in  
a huff, other times I'd go into the kitchen and throw  
a pan.   
  
And once, just once, we had sex.  
  
God, I hate even thinking about it now. It's like a  
dream, or a nightmare, and sometimes it doesn't seem  
real. I mean, I'm not the type of person that gets  
into a fight with the town's self-proclaimed  
cheerleader at closing time, and ends up fucking them  
in the bedroom upstairs. What was he complaining about  
that night? Must've been the counter, thought it was  
too old. "Are you sure it's stable?" he asked. "Maybe  
someday you'll put a plate down, or some unsuspecting  
mother will sit their child down on that counter, and  
what will you do if it collapses?" And he went on  
about lawsuits, and I went on about how no one should  
sit their kid down on a place where strangers eat off  
of, and I yelled at him to sit on it, and then I  
jumped on it. I'm sure I was proving some point, about  
how it could support the weight, but I dunno if we  
said anything else, because suddenly he was kissing  
me. Maybe he was drunk, on drugs, I'm still lookin'  
for an excuse for why Taylor would feel the need to  
put his lips to mine. And in my mind I was  
sleep-deprived, or something, *anything*, because I  
kissed him back. I remember noticing how weird his  
mustache and beard felt against my skin, and how it  
wasn't breasts that were pushed up against me, but  
another man's body.   
  
I don't remember going upstairs; I think we stumbled  
a lot. I'm hopin' that we didn't break apart, because  
I'd like to imagine that if I had thought about what I  
was doin' than I wouldn't have done it. And I only  
vaguely remember the way his skin felt against mine,  
the way he obviously knew what he was doing, and I had  
no idea. And there was no exhausted sleeping, because  
I think both of us were in shock. I remember pulling  
on pants, taking a walk and pretending everything was  
okay, and going back to my apartment to find it empty.  
I didn't sleep that night, that I remember. I know I  
stared up at the ceiling for hours, wondering if that  
had just happened. Tryin' to figure out why, what it  
meant. And I don't know about him, but it didn't make  
me any less pissed off at him. I thought about finding  
him, beating him, asking him why the fuck he kissed  
me. It became clear to me that given a second chance,  
I wouldn't have had sex with him. And I convinced  
myself of that, and finally fell asleep. And the  
bastard showed up in my dreams.   
  
We never talked about it, never let ourselves have  
even a moment of awkwardness. Guess that's why maybe  
it doesn't seem real. Mostly I've forgotten it even  
happened. He comes into my diner, he nags, we fight,  
Lorelai jumps in with her own commentary. Both of us  
get pissed, but remain bullheaded. He storms out; I  
throw a pan in the kitchen. And only every once in a  
while do I imagine a better way to end the argument.  
  
-30-  
  
Author's Notes: I haven't written a Gilmore Girls fic  
in a while, so I'm a little rusty. However, this has  
been rolling around in my head for quite a while now,  
because I definitely sense chemistry between Luke and  
Taylor. Please, let me know what you think-good or  
bad-at Java_Eve@yahoo.com! 


End file.
